


Diner Muse

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Flirting, Cabins, Diner Owner Stiles Stilinski, Diners, First Meetings, Getting Together, M/M, POV Derek Hale, Small Towns, Writer Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 00:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Derek has writer's block. Badly. He goes to a cabin to clear his head, but ends up finding his inspiration in an ancient small-town diner instead.





	Diner Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImpulsivelyFicced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulsivelyFicced/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for the lovely Skye! Happy birthday, love!
> 
> Betaed by the lovely Rita. Thanks bro, you're my main bro. <3

It's been two years, and Derek's editor Eliza has finally met her official limit.

 

“If you don't bring me at the very least an outline for a new story by this time next month, you better start shopping around for a new editor,” her email says, and Derek finally allows himself to admit the truth.

 

He's blocked. Horrifically so.

 

After his last book he'd taken a well-deserved break for a few months, expecting ideas to start coming again as soon as he'd had a rest. They always had in the past. But six months passed. Eight. Ten. A year.

 

Nothing.

 

Eliza had started nagging at that point, but has so far accepted his excuses. He's been working too hard on the previous books, or he just needed more time to get his head back into a writing mindset, or his dog was sick or, or, or...

 

Yeah. Plenty of excuses.

 

But now there's nothing for it. He's putting himself on a deadline, and he's gonna make sure there are no distractions until he comes up with something.

 

His terrier Gopher wags her tail delightedly from the back seat as soon as he turns the car onto the woodland path towards the cabin he's rented. It's not the first time he's stayed there, but it's the first time he's using it as a self-imposed work camp rather than a place to unwind and enjoy the silence.

 

It's a tiny place, only one room and nothing but essentials. A hotplate, a bed, a single electrical outlet, and the smallest possible bathroom. One chair, one table, one plate, etc. There's no possible way to get distracted here.

 

About five miles away there's a tiny town, but other than that there's nothing but mountains and forests for hundreds of miles, so it's truly isolated. It's so different from his New York apartment with the constant background roar of big city life that he simply can't imagine leaving here with nothing to show for it.

 

Gopher jumps out and starts racing around in the trees the minute Derek opens the door for her, and he watches her with a smile on his face as she marks trees and sprints around the cabin, tongue lolling out from pure joy. For a small, excitable dog she's had a massive impact on Derek's life since he picked her up from a shelter a few years back, and nowadays he can barely remember how life was before her. It was definitely lonelier, though.

 

Settling in is done in seconds, and then it's just... quiet. It's nice. Derek likes the quiet.

 

He takes the first day to just get acclimatized, taking walks in the area, eating the rest of the pre-cooked meals he brought from home – since the cabin doesn't have fridge – and tries to remember how to live in the now.

 

On day two he plugs in his laptop, opens a fresh doc... and stares at the blinking cursor for two hours. He takes another walk and tries again. By mid-afternoon he's hating the damn thing, and slams the lid of the laptop shut. Obviously he needs some kind of idea _before_ facing the blatant blank page judgment again, so he starts brainstorming instead.

 

By day four he's a wreck, and starting to panic ever so slightly.

 

“I'm losing it,” he tells Gopher, who wags her tail slowly in acknowledgment of the attention. “Maybe six books is all I got. Maybe I'm done,” he muses, and pets Gopher's head as she trots over to beg for more attention. “Do you think your human is a has-been?”

 

The only answer is happy panting as he scratches a floppy ear, and he sighs into the empty room.

 

“Fuck it, I need coffee,” he decides, and heads for the car.

 

Usually he stays clear of caffeine and other stimulants when he's at the cabin, since he tends to go there to relax. But he's definitely not feeling very relaxed right now, and he needs something to clear his head a little.

 

So he drives to Road Bend, the small town of about fifty people total where the only shops are a general store that looks like it could have come out of any number of colonial America movie sets, and a diner that doesn't have opening hours posted. Quaint doesn't even remotely cover it.

 

One thing that endears the town to Derek, though, is the fact that dogs are welcome inside everywhere, because by far the most customers that come through are hunters. So Gopher happily trails after Derek into the diner, and sniffs around while he waits at the counter. The bell over the door should have alerted the proprietor of customers, but if Derek's memory serves him right, the owner is a tiny elderly man who doesn't exactly move very fast. So he resigns himself to waiting for however long it takes for the guy to slowly shuffle in from wherever he might be right now.

 

When the door to the back room finally swings open, Derek's jaw drops in surprise, because this is definitely not that same old guy. This man is young, first of all, but also stunningly beautiful with an expressive face, gorgeous eyes, and restless hands being wiped on a towel or gesturing as he speaks.

 

“Hey there, stranger. What can I get ya?” the guy asks, and it takes Derek so long to get a hold of himself that Diner Guy has time to start looking a little worried for his sanity.

 

“You're not the guy I remember,” is what Derek finally says, and gives himself an internal smack on the head, because those social skills clearly need airing too.

 

Diner Guy doesn't look offended, though. “Very astute, my friend. No, ol' Mr. Matthews took himself and his arthritis to warmer climates, and I just happened to be on the lookout for some independent employment options, so. Here we are.” He tosses out both hands like he's revealing a magic trick, and Derek can't help but quirk his lips into a smile.

 

“Oh. Uhm. Good for him. And... for you?” Progress. Derek gives himself a solid B minus for it.

 

“I think so, yeah. Coffee?” Diner Guy asks, holding up the pot, and Derek nods. “Might not be the best, it's from this morning. Not nearly enough truckers passing by today. I can make a fresh pot if you want.”

 

“No, it's fine. As long as there's cream and sugar.”

 

“Huh. Woulda pegged you for the _coffee as black as my soul_ type of guy, but I guess I should know better than anyone not to judge a book by its cover.”

 

Derek gives a questioning eyebrow as he stirs in his sugar, and Diner Guy shrugs. “Let's just say my choice to run an ancient diner in the middle of nowhere wasn't exactly seen as a likely scenario by most people in my life. But here we are, three years later. So haters to the left, am I right?”

 

Just then, Gopher sneezes at Derek's feet, and Diner Guy immediately cranes his head across the counter to get a look. “Oh my goddddddd, hey little fellah!” he coos, and Gopher wags her tail so hard her back legs scoot from side to side. “Can I pet the cutie, please?” he asks Derek, and is around the counter in a flash as soon as he gets a nod.

 

“Oh my god, look at you, such a cute little puppy! I'm so used to hunting dogs now, it's been so long since I've seen a tiny thing like you, oh gosh, look how cute you are. I'm Stiles. And who might you be?” he asks, and his eyes dart up to Derek for an answer while Gopher is busy joyfully losing her shit over the doting.

 

“Her name is Gopher. Because she likes to dig her way out of places. That's how she ended up at the shelter before I took her home.”

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles coos quietly, and beams with happiness when Gopher rolls over for belly rubs. “Dude, that coffee is on me, this is the best day I've had in, like, a week. I should put up a sign saying I accept cash, credit cards and belly rubs. Though maybe not, because then some grease monkey might read it as if _I'd_ like my belly rubbed, which... I'd say is a second date kinda thing.”

 

Derek has to shake himself a little to get the image of his hand on Stiles' stomach out of his head, but luckily Stiles is still too enamored with Gopher to notice. By the time he finally gets back up, Gopher is a blissed out puddle on the floor, and Derek's coffee is almost gone.

 

“So. Refill?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods before he knows it.

 

* * *

 

Usually when Derek stays at the cabin he goes to town only every other day or so, buys whatever won't spoil, makes a huge pot of stew or soup, and eats nothing else until his next trip. Living a little rough helps keep his mind free of clutter, and considering his current blockage problem he can't think of a time where he's needed a clear head more.

 

For some reason, however, it's barely been a full day after his visit to the diner before he's back in Road Bend. He putters around in the general store, buys some jerky and some smelly, dried fish things that Gopher will do pretty amazing and complicated tricks for. After he's paid for that, though, he can't really delude himself any longer, and heads back to the diner.

 

He can't say he's ever seen the place crowded, but it's definitely more busy today, three out of the eight booths occupied, and two people at the counter. Everyone seems absorbed in their eating, though, and barely casts Derek a glance as he comes in.

 

Everyone except Stiles.

 

“Derek! And Gopher! You return! Just couldn't get enough of that stale coffee aesthetic, huh? Well, sorry to disappoint. It's fresh this time,” he says with a smile of delight that leaves Derek's mouth a little dry.

 

“Hello,” he says awkwardly, and picks a stool at the end, putting a little space between himself and the rest of the customers.

 

“Soooo,” Stiles says, plopping his elbows down on the counter and leaning in just close enough for it to feel a little more than friendly. “What can I do ya for?”

 

Derek's mouth will just not stop being dry, and he has to struggle a little to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Just... coffee. Please.”

 

“So polite. Watch out, I may swoon,” Stiles titters and puts a hand to his forehead to illustrate.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Stiles just grins at him and gets him coffee.

 

* * *

 

Three days and three diner visits later Derek is sitting on the cabin's tiny porch, gazing at the treeline, when it finally comes to him.

 

A dashing hero. With whiskey eyes and beauty marks, strong shoulders and an easy grin. Roguish type. With a muddled past. Trying to leave a life of straddling the line between good and evil behind by settling down in a small town where no one knows him.

 

Derek has his laptop open in minutes, making notes while it's fresh. He doesn't have a plot yet, but that doesn't matter. He's got _something_ now.

 

He's not even going to try and delude himself, here. His new character is basically Stiles, and Derek's got at least two pages just describing his looks in great detail by the time he stops typing and flexes the soreness out of his fingers.

 

Looks like he's got a new muse.

 

* * *

 

Laura likes to make fun of Derek's general dislike of small talk and socialization, and Derek will be the first to admit he's usually much happier alone with the occasional exception, like his family, his dog and all of three people he considers friends.

 

It took Stiles barely a minute to earn a place on that very short list, and Derek isn't stupid. He knows there's something here.

 

But Stiles isn't going anywhere, and Derek has about two and a half weeks left until he needs to have an outline done. So needs must.

 

He spends several frustrated days in the cabin, fleshing out the Stiles character without coming even a little bit closer to a plot line, and when he takes his now daily trip to the diner he's in a shitty mood.

 

“Oh, man, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Stiles asks the minute he sees him. “Turn that frown upside down, mountain man!”

 

Derek grunts at him, more to indulge Stiles' notion that he's a full-time hermit than anything else. The beard he's letting grow as it pleases probably isn't helping that impression all that much.

 

“Don't you worry your little scruffy face, I'm gonna keep you caffeinated while you tell me alllll about it.”

  
“Will I, now?” Derek asks, while Stiles pours him coffee.

 

“Of course you will. I'm like a bartender, here to listen to your woes as you drown them.”

 

“... in coffee?”

 

Stiles points a finger in his face. “Don't you mock. I have a liquor license, and I'm not afraid to use it.”

 

“Why on Earth would you have a liquor license?”

 

“I dunno. Figured it could come in handy for hosting private parties or something. Never let a good business opportunity pass by.”

 

Derek makes a mental note to make his character a bartender.

 

* * *

 

It takes an embarrassingly long time before Derek gets the stupidly simple idea of bringing his laptop to the diner. There's only a single outlet available to customers, and it's near the crummiest booth. But Derek has definitely worked under worse conditions, so he'll take it. Anything that'll keep Stiles in his field of vision and keys under his fingers.

 

Stiles is shameless about how much he enjoys Derek's company, and once he realizes the outlet situation he brings out an extension cord in a matter of minutes, and gets Derek back to the counter where they can keep chatting while Stiles cooks and cleans things.

 

“Hey, if your name wasn't Stiles, what would it be?” Derek asks a few days in, because he's still trying to think of a good name for his not-Stiles.

 

“Hmmm. I dunno. Would have to be something dashing. Obviously.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Stiles grins at him. “Well, when I was five I wanted to be called Han Solo.”

 

“Me too,” Derek admits, and grants Stiles the high five when he puts up his palm for it.

 

“Well, I dunno. I already picked Stiles for myself because my given name is a Polish abomination.”

 

“Why _Stiles_ , though? I mean... of all things.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “I like alliteration.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Derek types _Handsome Hank?_ And shuts the lid.

 

* * *

 

Henry Frank, A.K.A Handsome Hank, the dashing daredevil, takes shape more and more over the next few days. Stiles knows Derek is writing a book, but hasn't pushed for details, which Derek is grateful for. Not that he'd mind Stiles asking, but the fact that he hasn't speaks of a certain type of kindness that's really appealing. Derek makes sure to give Hank a softer side too, as well as a trusty dog for a companion.

 

There's still no idea for a plot, but Derek is sure it'll come to him. After all, Stiles – as well as Hank – was dropped in his lap just from patient waiting. Derek is sure it'll happen again.

 

But until it does he's pretty happy spending all daylight hours at the diner, getting increasingly friendly and flirty as he works past the initial stiffness he always feels when meeting new people.

 

It's starting to get urgent, though, with only a week and change to go, and Derek finally cracks under the pressure.

 

“I need your help,” he says by way of a greeting, and Stiles pauses with his hand half-way to the coffee pot.

 

“Gimme a minute to lock up, then I'll get the plastic bags and fake IDs,” Stiles says with a quick look around the empty diner, and Derek stares at him.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I just assumed you finally needed me to help you bury a body.”

 

Derek is officially confused. “I'm... _what?_ ”

 

“Relax, Derek, I'm kidding. It's just... the first time we met you came in here with like a month's worth of beard, extreme dislike of chitchat, and a high grade resting murder face. I've been waiting ages to make this joke, and you finally gave me an opening! You can't blame me for taking the shot!”

 

“I wanna be annoyed with you, but considering I'm basically writing a book about you, I feel like I don't have a lot of room to talk.”

 

Stiles promptly drops the mug he was taking down for Derek, and it shatters on the floor. Stiles doesn't even spare it a glance, too busy gawping at Derek. “You're what now?”

 

“I'm writing a book. I came here to try and cure my writer's block, but so far all I have is a character. And he's pretty much you.”

 

There's a long, tense moment while Stiles obviously digests this information, and Derek braces himself for a polite but firm request that he leave the premises and can expect a restraining order shortly.

 

“Can I read it?” is what Stiles says eventually, and Derek blinks in surprise.

 

“Uh. Sure.” He figures it's only fair, and opens up his laptop so Stiles can read what he's got, while Derek tries to prepare himself for whatever Stiles' reaction might be once he's read it.

 

Stiles is apparently a fast reader, and Derek has barely ten minutes to freak out before Stiles looks up, a slow grin growing wider on his face.

 

“Well. I'm definitely flattered,” is what he says, and Derek breathes a silent sigh of relief. “And I know it's only notes, but it looks like it's gonna be good. So what do you need my help for?”

 

“I don't have a plot, and my editor is gonna skin me alive if I don't bring her an outline or a test chapter or something by the end of the month. And I got nothing,” Derek admits miserably.

 

Stiles, however, doesn't stop grinning. “Sure you do. You've got a dashing hero!” He throws out his hands in an obvious _ta-dah_ , and Derek can't help but smile back, fondness swelling in his chest.

 

“Yeah, well. I need a story.”

 

There's a pause where Stiles looks contemplative, but then slowly starts to smile again. “You know, the way I see it... you've already got one.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

Stiles leans in close across the counter, and Derek's mouth goes dry again.

 

“Well. If Hank is me... and he's sorta doing what I'm doing... then it's right there. Gorgeous and mysterious stranger arrives in town, opens up slowly, and turns out to be just as wonderful on the inside,” he says softly, and Derek feels a little weak.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. I'd call him something like... Eric.”

 

Derek snorts. “Cute.”

 

“I thought it was.”

 

“Fine. What's the plot then?”

 

Stiles blinks at him. “I literally just told you, Derek.”

 

“Two guys meet? What kind of story is that?”

 

Derek stops breathing when Stiles leans in even closer, until their noses brush. “A love story, of course,” he whispers, and Derek is a writer, he _knows_ cliché. But at this particular point in time he can't find it in himself to give a shit, and just lets himself have his Hallmark moment.

 

* * *

 

It's many hours later, and Derek lies awake in Stiles' messy bed, letting his fingers trail up and down Stiles' spine. His skin is amazingly soft, and Derek can't seem to stop touching it. Luckily, it seems Stiles is in the same boat, considering how his fingers keep scritching absently through Derek's chest hair.

 

“I still need a plot,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles huffs.

 

“I told you. Love story.”

 

“That's... not really my thing,” Derek says slowly. “I'm usually more of a historical fantasy kinda guy.”

 

Stiles snorts. “So? Maybe it's time to leave your comfort zone a little.”

 

“Eliza would kill me.”

 

“Orrrrr,” Stiles drawls, and props himself up on an elbow to catch Derek's eye. “Maybe she'd consider it a bold style change. And if you keep up the vague western setting you got already, then bam, there's your plot. Outlaws in love, finding each other at different crossroads of their lives.”

 

Derek ponders that for a while. “Do people... read that? I mean... I don't even know what I mean. I literally never even considered it as a genre. I never felt like I was good at heavily emotional plots.”

 

Stiles gazes at him, and reaches up to brush a few strands of hair off Derek's forehead so tenderly he can barely breathe. “All the more reason to try it. Flex those writing muscles so you don't end up in another writer's block.”

 

It's a good point, Derek has to admit.

 

“And besides,” Stiles adds, slowly rolling until he's laying on top of Derek, chin resting on his folded hands. “Right now you kinda have the inspiration right in front of you.”

 

That's really hard to argue with, and Derek claims his _inspiration's_ soft lips again, just because he can.

 

* * *

 

A year and a half later, D. Hale publishes his seventh book. A bold romance in a sci-fi western setting, all about choices and learning how to fall. Reviews are glowing, praising a previously action-focused author for going in such a brave, new direction, keeping the same diversity and high quality the reviewers have come to expect from him.

 

The dedication reads:

 

_To Stiles. For being the one I needed before I even knew I needed anyone._

 

_And for suggesting the sci-fi. That was a great idea, babe. Love you._

 

End.

 


End file.
